


Center of Peer Pressure

by Aoede



Category: Mach GoGoGo | Speed Racer
Genre: Chair Bondage, Gen, Non-Consensual Tickling, Public Humiliation, Reverse Hazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:20:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoede/pseuds/Aoede
Summary: Although now officially World Racing Champion of '68 by way of the Around the World Race – a higher-stakes, individually-invested-in extension of the World Sportscar Championship – Speed's not quite done with winding up in trouble. At first a surprise and rather reluctant ribbing by new race winners at the industry's behest – but not too long after, things take a mysterious serious turn.





	Center of Peer Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I think I've found my main niche here. ¯\\(◉‿◉)/¯ Blame the fact that, IN CANON, this pretty boy gets captured and tied up almost every other episode – and has the most loveable cute laugh EVER, OMG. 
> 
> Don't believe me?
> 
>   
> https://vimeo.com/403158620 (Embed not working argh)
> 
> Also I apologize for the sudden dearth of updates. I appreciate anyone and everyone who still reads and likes my stuff. Thank you SO SO VERY MUCH for giving my weirdness even a brief glance. It means the world to me.
> 
> Beware of mood whiplash! Plus, pun names par for the course. Title is also a play on the term 'Center of Pressure' which is "The point on an Indy car underwing which receives the greatest amount of airflow pressure. This measurement is critical to setting front to rear balance, especially on superspeedways." (Courtesy of Auto-Dictionary.com/Racing)

“Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen! To the Finest Final Hour of the World Sportscar Championship! Today in addition to our returning racers, we see three new but well-trained, well-run entrants: Ackerman Steering, Camber Thrust, and Darlington Stripe!”

Each car driver raised his head, waving in typical fashion to the sizeable roar of the packed stadium crowd. Steering was tall and thin, black-haired and black-‘stache-and-bearded, in a dark red suit with brighter red scarf and dark gray gloves. Thrust was a curly dark blond, smooth shaven in comparison, half-a-foot shorter, with a pale-brown-to-beige suit that just about matched his hair, and cimarron gloves. Stripe stood to Camber’s left, though height-wise, roughly between them, slightly younger than the blond with thick shiny brown hair, his outfit was a combination of red-and-purple that made him look almost like Flash Marker's long lost twin.

There was one more standout figure, normally recognized as a racer – especially since it was literally in his name. However, today the nineteen-year old chestnut-haired one didn’t stand waiting by his equally iconic car, but pinned rather snugly to a hybrid of chair and stocks – legs forward, arms up and back – high up on the same platform as the exuberant announcer. Quite close to the man with the mic, in fact, who now turned his sparkling grin to him for a moment with an unsettling sort of wink before whirling back to face both the crowd and the contestants below.

“And for the first three to cross the finish line first, not ONLY will we have trophies and the glory of true sportsmanship for a prize, BUT a very special once-in-a-race-time hands-on opportunity –” the announcer practically swung his arm at Speed “– the chance to TICKLE International World Racing Champion of ’68, SPEED Racer!”

The boy’s heart thumped hard against his chest like a wildly weaving drunk’s front bumper colliding with a tree, sweat suddenly pouring off of him in a flash like steam from a clothes iron. Reflexively, he lowered his head, pinning his eyes to the nearest empty wooden plank and letting them haze, trying to will his ears to fade everything out as well. To no avail as usual, unable to help a brief, red-faced cringe as he couldn’t help discerning the crowd’s initial collective “Whaaaaa?!” followed by “Oooooh!”

“You heard right, folks! A little friendly tickle-torture as a sign of goodwill from the former world champion! First place will get an hour, second place forty-five minutes, and third place thirty minutes. Each’ll get a choice of one of Speed’s tickle spots – there are PLENTY – and a pick of tickle-tool, of which we’ve ALSO got plenty of to choose from! A little tricky fun for our winners, and a lot of extra fun for our record turnout crowd!”

The greenhorn drivers glanced and shrugged among each other. “Kinda weird if you ask me,” Thrust mused, quickly adding. “Not that I’m opting out or anything.”

“True – though it reminds me of my old fraternity days,” Stripe added, eyes closed in a thoughtful, smiling pause. “Of course, that’s pretty tame compared to the stuff we used to do.”

Donning a smirk with a swish of his moustache, Steering said “I’ve got a kid brother I used to practice on – and hey, if it’s hazing THE Speed Racer, then that IS a pretty rare shot!”

Synching their sly grins, they all craned their heads back to eye the helpless chestnut-haired champion, who finally pushed his voice out of his dry closing throat with a wince, piping up “Now WAIT a minute! When I won this race the last time around I didn’t get to try tickling anybody or anything! What’s the big idea?!”

With another knowing, manure-munching sort of grin, the man with the mic said matter-of-factly, though still quite loudly and enthusiastically, “Well, Speed, that’s because there’s nobody on EARTH quite as ticklish as you – or HALF as fun to watch being tickled as you!”

“W – th – that CAN’T be true!” Speed protested, looking like a deer halfway between a tranced stare at headlights and an attempt to bolt back through the trees.

“We’ll see!” the announcer rebutted, chuckling, “Or rather, the audience and all of today’s registered racers will! But for now, RACERS to your CARS!”

Trying to relieve the cramp in his neck and shoulders by leaning his head back and straightening them, the boy gazed straight up at the sky, wishing he could float right up with his stare. _Would it be too much to ask that something crazy would happen? Some bad guy with a hatred for cars or racing or both or a nuclear missile or SOMEthing come in right now and crash this whole thing? At least delay it. Maybe even a rain out. Heh…heheh…nnnh…_  
___

As convenient coincidence would have it, the three newly named racers also came in first, second, and third – though not quite as announced, Stripe beating Thrust to second. Still, they climbed the platform and approached the professional expositor and their soon-to-be tickle-victim; Speed still trying to avoid eye contact and fidgeting a bit with them all so close.

“Congratulations again, fellas!” the man with the mic greeted loudly, mirroring the hearty handshakes their trophy-handers had given them on the podium below earlier. “Now, on to tricky, tickly business…” he turned to Speed, then the table with another sweep of his arm, “Mr. Steering, you’ve got your hour. Which of Speed’s spots will you be tickling and with what will you be tickling?”

“Hmm…” Ackerman uttered, a knuckle stroking his whiskery chin closely as he surveyed his laid out options on the long table – then promptly picked one, turning and walking back with a wider grin. “I guess I’ll go for his feet, and I pick this feather here!”

“Great choice!” the announcer chimed, giving him a light pat on the back as he leaned down to set the rounded-but-narrow dark brown feathertip to Speed’s soles. “Speed’s so very ticklish, he’s definitely what they call ‘feather ticklish’! And don’t forget the toes!”

“Whaa?! NO – HOHOHAHAHA!” the chestnut-haired one began, bursting into laughter at the terrible hours-long anticipated tickling as the feather darted in an unbearable swift sawing between all ten of his toes in turn, twirling and flitting, sliding underneath them and briskly dancing up and down his fairly immobile feet. “NOT the TOES! AHAHAHAHAA! HAHAAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“And Mr. Stripe, you’ve got your forty-five. Which of Speed’s spots will YOU be tickling and with what?”

With not quite so much hesitation, Darlington darted past the table, clutching up two more feathers, and ducking behind the boy, brandishing them by his elbows with a snicker “I’ll take under his arms – and I ALSO pick the feathers!” before prodding them into his sleeves, flitting quite mercilessly along his helplessly exposed armpits.

“Another excellent choice!”

Speed lunged forward what little his trussed-up position allowed, his head leaning forward; then flung back, attempting to wriggle though could hardly only twitch and fidget. “HAHAHAIIEHEHEHE! NAHA! NAAHAHAHA! NAHAT THAT EITHEHEHER!”

“And for you Mr. Thrust, your thirty. Now which of Speed’s spots will you be tickling, and with what will you tickle him?”

“Hm…hmm…” the shorter blond man pondered, finally plucking up a standard sized paintbrush, declaring “I’ll take this paintbrush, and I’ll go for his belly!” and hiking the hem of the boy’s shirt up, swirling and zig-zagging the thick round brushtip from his waistline to his chest.

“Another terrific choice! Tummy tickling is always a classic!” the expositor gushed, again adding with a devious curl of a grin “Brush bristles are actually what Speed finds most ticklish!”

“It is?” Camber uttered with a blink, then grinned ear to ear with a trilling “HMhmhmhmm!” continuing his patterns, in the middle of a squiggling downward sweep when the man with the mic spoke up yet again.

“DON’T forget the tummybutton! Or the sides – though they’re most ticklish when squeezed quick, Speed’s belly-sides are another of his most ticklish spots!”

“WIHIHILL YOUHOUHOU STAHAHAHAAAAP?!” the chesnut-haired one cried, voice already quite shrill and scratchy, literally shaking under all of the sudden rapid relentless tickling, trying to glance at the announcer through watery eyes before he couldn’t help another sharp, helplessly grinning cringe. “AAAAHAHAA! HAHAHAAA!”

Though obviously not as fully, the other three racers chuckled on and off. The stadium crowd murmured excitedly and laughed in genuine amusement and gleeful derision. Now almost as he’d hoped, Speed was so consumed by his laughing fit that they were drowned out quite a bit.

Stripe actually threw the first official taunt, cooing “Ooh, look who’s ticklish! Speedie is ticklish!”

“AND the tickle taunts have now begun!” the man with the mic noted with even more gleaming eyes and beaming face. “In addition to everything else mentioned, Speed is definitely the kind of ticklish that teasing him about it makes him EVEN MORE ticklish!”

“AHAAHAA! STAAAAHAHAAAAAP!” the chestnut-haired one howled, verging on more of a straight beg than a flustered command.

“It does, huh?” Steering echoed, snort-snickering, and giving his feather a few more flits and twisting spins between his fingers and Speed’s toes before swapping the ends and tracing the quill from ball to heel, poking relentlessly at and between his toes and all up and down his arches. “Heheh…so us telling you how tickly you are makes you even more tickly? Like these feather tickly feet of yours? And your extra tickly toes, huh?”

“STAHAHAAP! STAHAP! NOHOHOHOO STAAAHAAAHAAAP!” the boy begged again, still watering eyes wide for the moment with quivering lips before resuming his aching sardonic grin of a wince and limited writhe.

“Like your ticklish tum, huh?” Thrust threw in, “Heh…tickle down, tickle up, tickle right, tickle left…just keep tickling in a circle ‘til we find what tickles best!”

“This isn’t a poetry class, you nerd!” Steering chided.

“Who’re you calling a nerd?!” Camber fired back, though he still grinned. “We’re all having fun here, we’re all having a laugh here…”

“But it’s more fun to make Speed laugh here!” Darlington added coyly, having switched to twirling the feather ends before prodding and circling with the quill ends, leaning down to address him directly. “Here in the curve of your pitty-pit-pits, huh? Heheh…tickles you like crazy, I bet, huh? You just WISH you could get your arms free and try to hide these super tickly-tickle spots like usual huh? Ha! But all you can do is sit there and squirm. Squirm and wriggle and giggle at all the tickle-tickle-tickle!”

“AHAHEHE…AHAHAA…HAHAIIEEHE!” the chestnut-haired one’s chest and stomach still pounded, though his voice had already begun to cut out like a fading radio signal. When he inched forward in a tired attempt to curl, shaking with silent laughter, it looked as if someone had simply put him on mute. He gazed up for a moment with a rasping gasp for air which he quickly squeaked out again before another few dampened writhes.

“Wowee, will you look at that, ladies and gentlemen? It sure looks like our talented new drivers make for a great tag team of super talented ticklers! Speed really can’t STAND all this extra-tickle-ified-triple-extra-ticklish tickling! …and that’s why we had him sitting down. But seriously, folks, our winners have our former champ on the guffawing ropes! He was already the most ticklish kid in the whole wide world but just like his racing skills, he managed to outdo himself again! Or rather, his three new terrifically talented ticklers have managed to outdo all of his previous ticklers! But with just a few more minutes left for the three of them, can this tickling trio outdo their own terrific new tickle record?!”

“Speaking of,” Ackerman spoke up, turning – though still deftly tickling Speed’s feet ankle to toe, now using one quill and one feathertip in tandem – “since we’ve all just gotten to our stride, can’t we maybe split our last minutes so we can all work together still to top that ‘new Speed speed tickle record’ you just talked about?”

“Well, like a fight in the great Colosseum, I think that’s up to the crowd to decide!” the announcer insisted, turning to face the packed seats, both arms out. “So, what’ll it be? Shall we let these three keep going on their speedy Speed tickle quest?”

The deafening cheer was hardly ambiguous.

“All right then, you asked for it, ladies and gents! We’ll combine Mr. Thrust’s remaining fifteen minutes with Mr. Stripe’s thirty and Mr. Steering’s forty-five to ninety, giving them all a whole other half-hour to tickle Speed out of the rest of his wits!”

Another mushrooming roar of approval, drowning out the helpless bleat of the beleaguered former big-leaguer ticklee of the hour. Though his mind was racing about five times as much as he’d rather have been, he managed to think _THEY’RE REALLY GOING TO TICKLE ME TO DEATH UP HERE WITH EVERYBODY WATCHING!_ and plead _OH GAH PLEASE PLEEEASE SOMEBODY HELP MEEEE!_  
___

Suddenly, there was the sound of a cluttered thump beyond the front door, as if someone had dropped off an armful of packages on the step. Pops happened to be passing by, pausing and headed for it – though his youngest and the chimp beat him to it by a leap, a skid, and a combined tug at the knob.

All three gasped, jumping with wide eyes as they spied the second eldest collapsed halfway onto the step. Spritle made another videogame-style jump, landing beside his older brother and shaking him by the left shoulder. “Speed! Speedie, hey! Are you OK? Wake up, wake up!”

“Speak to me, son!” his father begged, sinking to his knees and gently putting a palm down at the top of his back, rubbing down. With a twitch, he drew back, uttering a “Hmm?!” and quickly yanked down the back of the chestnut-haired one’s collar.

There, just below his shoulder blades, was a fairly large, strange sort of scar. As if someone had sliced him open for an impromptu surgery, sewed it back up with haste, and left the wound to heal somewhat unevenly.

“What the heck is that?! What did they do to Speed?" the youngest cried.

"I don't know but it looks bad!" the elder Racer noted, returning his eyes to the chestnut-haired one "Where've you been this time?" lifting his head with a moustache-widening scowl. "WHO HURT MY SON THIS TIME?!”

**[INSERT DRAMATIC MUSIC CUE HERE]**

_What has happened to Speed now? What evil plan do his attackers have cooking? Be sure to see the next exciting episode of...Speed Racer!_


End file.
